


Undisclosed Desires

by Nina36



Series: Undisclosed Desires [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Pre Season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23610262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nina36/pseuds/Nina36
Summary: “Why did you stop?” She asked.I was ashamed.He was yours.I was terrified that you saw who I am.He was yours to kill. It was what you needed.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Jonsa - Relationship, Ramsay Bolton/Sansa Stark
Series: Undisclosed Desires [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1699450
Comments: 2
Kudos: 39





	Undisclosed Desires

**Author's Note:**

> I had this in my hard disk, written in short bursts and it's part of a series. The first instalment is Jon's pov

i

The first time it happened, it was after the Battle of the Bastards. 

He had bruises all over his body and could barely move – his heart was heavy with the lives he had taken and the image of Rickon falling in front of him, over and over. 

Although he had been wearing gloves during the battle, his knuckles were swollen and split; he had washed away the dirt and the blood, but his skin still throbbed, as if he was still punching Ramsay Bolton. 

_Come and see_

_Bastard_

_It’s a fine woman, your sister…_

She came into his chambers as he was waking up from slumber; she was a vision of red, white and black. 

She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen and it surprised him how little he felt guilty about those thoughts after  _everything_ . 

The first time, she kissed his knuckles first, one by one: tender and reverent. 

“Why did you stop?” She asked.

_I was ashamed._

_He was yours._

_I was terrified that you saw who I am._

_He was yours to kill. It was what you needed._

She didn’t let him answer, not really. She was the one who closed the distance between them, on his bed and kissed him. 

She was braver than him. She tasted like blood and earth and snow. 

He was supposed to be repulsed by it, he was supposed to be scared of the gods’ punishment. 

He knew, however, that there were no gods. There was just blackness and emptiness and silence,  _after._ She was alive, she was real – it felt like they were the only real people that night. 

Fathering a bastard had always been his biggest fear, the one line he could and would not cross. He did not think about that.

They didn’t even get to touch each other’s skin during their coupling. They were both scarred and the marks on their skins were still too fresh. 

Perhaps, she was manipulating him again, he thought later – her body, however, did not. Of that he was sure. 

He could still taste her on his lips when she went away, shrouded in darkness and silence. 

He had just fucked his half-sister and yet he had no troubles falling asleep, after. 

* * *

ii

“We need to trust each other,” He said.

He kissed her forehead because he was supposed to be her brother, he had vowed to protect her and yet he had fucked her (or she had fucked him – not that it made any difference) and people could see them.

She had apologized for lying to him and he wanted to ask her whether she was still lying, whether she had glimpsed through his darkest secrets, taken the images that had haunted him since he had held her in his arms and had used them to her advantage.

“Jon –“

_I fucked you and you look so innocent –_

_I killed thousands for you, I would kill more. What am I?_

“A raven came from the Citadel – a white raven-“ Sansa said. 

What if he moved and kissed her, right then, right there? Up, on the battlements, so that everyone could see what he was?

“Winter is here.” She said. 

They smiled. For a moment they were children again and their father’s spectre was between them. Why didn’t it feel damning? 

Winter was there – 

That night, she came for him, again. She apologized, again and kissed him. 

* * *

iii

Littlefinger had eyes and ears everywhere; Brienne of Tarth was honorable and loyal, there were Lords everywhere in Winterfell and yet, none of them knew the place like they did. It was their home; he refused to think about the shadows in the halls and how they sometimes reminded him of Robb or his Father or Rickon. 

He felt like he was coming undone at the seams: there was a dichotomy between what happened in the dark, and the front they presented to the North, to their allies and their foe. 

Was it how Sansa had survived? Was she using him? Was she aware of how much he loved her and how it was driving him to distraction? 

Sansa was undoing what the Boltons had done to Winterfell bit by bit. There was a locked room which he had noticed in passing and unlike the other rooms it had not been touched, yet. 

They had had months to get reacquainted with each other, to develop ways to communicate that would go unnoticed. She was extremely careful, now – even he could see how good she was at schooling her features when Littlefinger was around. There was something dangerous in the fact that she was able to hand him the key to that room while they were in front of everyone. 

Perhaps she wanted to prove to herself that she was better than Littlefinger, that she could play him just like he had played their family – mayhaps it was her way to feel free in her own home. 

He did not know. 

They met outside the room – and he focused on her: ice blue eyes, red hair; she was clad in black and was still wearing the clothes she had worn during the day. 

He remembered the way she used to dress when they were children – how bright she looked in comparison to everything else in Winterfell. He remembered the grey clothes she had been wearing when they had met again, how much she had trembled in his arms, how cold she had been. 

She was wearing black all the time, now. 

Like a widow in mourning, like a crow – like a shadow.

* * *

iv

“We need to talk,” He had said the day before – Sansa’s answer had been a key.

It smelled like blood and pain in that dark room. 

_We need to talk. What are we? What are we doing? Did Ramsay break you so thoroughly that you can fuck your own brother and wear a mask of innocence in the morning?_

They hadn’t been carrying torches – that would make them more visible, and it was dark in the room, yet Sansa moved easily in it and lit up some candles.

“This was where Ramsay kept me.” She said. 

Blood. Sansa’s blood. Pain – what she had endured at that man’s hands and mind. He wanted to punch Ramsay again and again, he needed to  _feel_ the man’s bones break under his hands.

Perhaps, he might be able to breathe again if he did. 

“Talk.” She said. 

_If Ramsay wins, I’m not going back there alive. Do you understand me?_

“Why did you bring me here?” He asked.

“Because no one else has the keys –“ She replied. The room was cold and yet he wanted to open the windows, he wanted to let the blood and pain out. 

Was it the truth?

Sansa looked tired, there were shadows dancing on her face and he had to look away. Did it matter whether it was the truth?

“Talk,” She repeated. 

He had told her they needed to talk, but he had no idea about what to tell her. 

“What are we doing?” He asked, eventually. 

She was standing still, near a small table; there weren’t any chairs and he wouldn’t sit on that bed if his life depended on it; Sansa was avoiding to even look at it. 

She tilted her head on a side, as if she was truly pondering his question. 

“What do you mean?” She asked.

Did he dream it all? It couldn’t be, otherwise they wouldn’t be in that room, they wouldn’t need the secrecy. It felt like a dream – but it also felt warm and  _real_ and vivid and the only good thing that had happened to him for a very long time. 

“You came to my chambers.” He said. 

She nodded. 

So, it wasn’t a dream. It had truly happened. He knew how she tasted like, had felt her hot breath against his neck and her inner muscles had quivered and throbbed around him. 

“Yes,” She said. “Twice.”

She looked remarkably calm but, then again, she hadn’t shown any emotion in front of Ramsay during the parlay – it didn’t mean anything. 

“Why?” He asked. 

“I don’t feel guilty.” She replied, “I know I should, but…”

“I’m not a Stark –“ 

She rolled her eyes, “I already told you, you are to  _me.”_

She moved toward him and he couldn’t move a muscle, not even when she said, “I don’t care – who is going to judge us? The gods? They don’t care either! They didn’t care when Father died or when Robb and mother were slaughtered, why should they care about any of  _this_ ?”

She hadn’t answered his question, it didn’t matter how much he agreed with her words. 

“Aye, but that is not what I asked,” He said. 

He wanted to know why. He needed to know that she wasn’t using him, that he wasn’t only a means to an end. 

“Did he suggest it to you?”

The slap surprised him, he truly did not see it coming. Sansa, who was a lady – she had always been one, ever since he could remember, had just slapped him and he realized that she was still wearing her gloves. 

“How dare you!” She exclaimed. Her chest was heaving and that could not be an act – he saw tears glimmering in her eyes and she looked hurt, for a moment, before she let it fade and replace with her usual calm demeanor. 

He did not truly think that; not really – he wasn’t even sure what he was thinking. He felt like knives were still piercing through his skin and there were nights when he could still feel the  _nothingness_ that he had felt beyond the veil. 

“How can you think that?” She asked. She would not slap him again, she was standing perfectly still, the only sign that she was angry was her balled fists against her sides. 

“You didn’t tell me about the knights of the Vale!” He said, and truly where did that anger come from? He was grateful that the knights had arrived, he had already forgiven Sansa – even though there was nothing to forgive, not really. 

“That is _not_ the same thing!” She hissed; he shouldn’t feel so glad to see the cracks in her façade, to see the anger she was clearly feeling spilling out, clear in her eyes, in the way she was curling her lips. 

“Is it not?” He asked. He could not believe he was saying those words; she was right, it was not the same thing – he knew perfectly well why she had not told him about the Knights of the Vale.

“I am not Littlefinger’s whore,” She stated.

Sansa was looking at him, there were shadows dancing on her face, there was anger in her eyes and she looked tired. 

“There is my blood on the wall next to the bed!” She said. She took the candle and he could not help but looking as she got close to the bed, and she was right, there were splashes of blood on the wall; he started when she uncovered the bed showing him the sheets, soiled with old blood. 

“Ramsay must have left this chamber as it was –“ She said, without looking at him, “Do you honestly believe I would listen to Baelish’s council?”

_I won’t_ _**ever** _ _let him touch you again! I’ll protect you, I promise!_

He had seen blood, he had seen men, friends, die in battle. Ygritte had died in his arms; he also knew what had been done to his brother’s body after he died. 

And yet –

Sansa’s blood, on the walls, soiling the sheets of that bed turned his stomach. 

“Why, then?” He asked. 

Sansa turned and smiled. He had got to know that smile, it was the one she used with Baelish all the time, now.

What had he done?

“You don’t get an answer from me, not after what you said, Jon.” She replied, after a moment. 

* * *

v

She came to him a few nights later. 

On the surface, nothing had changed: they were ruling Winterfell and the North like a unit; she was smart, capable, and breathtakingly beautiful. 

She acted like a sister, would – but they were never alone; even when they talked in her solar, at nights, the door was open and Brienne was outside. 

He was confused, he was angry and hurt – and he had hurt Sansa with his words. 

He wasn’t prepared to wake up to the feeling of a warm mouth wrapped around his cock.

Sansa’s mouth. 

To be fair, he had been dreaming of her a lot lately and, in the dream he had been having before waking up, she was with him, her hair tickling her face, her lips kissing the side of her neck, and her beautiful, slender body covering his.

That, however, was  _not_ a dream. 

And he hated to even gain pleasure from what she was doing because the way she might have learned it turned his stomach. 

She knew exactly what to do, how to tease him to the edge and bring him back.

The truth was that he was powerless, at the moment.

They both knew that he was sure. And when he tried to warn her that he was close, by placing a tentative hand on her shoulder, she swapped it away.

And she undid him.

After, as they were both breathing hard, she looked at him and in a hoarse voice said, “That's what Littlefinger's whores do – that's what my _husband_ taught me. Learn the difference, Jon!”

_Sorry._

_I thought that if you were a spy, this would make sense._

_What are we, then?_

* * *

_vi_

He had never been in her rooms at night; there were passages throughout Winterfell, once, a long time ago, they had used them to play: Robb, Theon and him.

Sansa knew, of course, about the passages. She had been the one dealing with undoing what the Boltons had done to their home, including clearing the passages.

She had ignored him since that night in his room, when she had taken him in her mouth and taught him a lesson.

That, however, had happened before the message from Tyrion.

She didn't look particularly surprised to see him, she only spared a glance at the closed door, and hug her arms against her chest.

“What do you want?” She asked, after a moment.

He suspected that it wasn't the real question she had meant to ask.

Always the diplomat, careful not to show her hand. Even with him. Except in the dark, when she became soft again, red like fire and white like passion.

“I owe you an apology.” He said eventually.

It wasn't the truth, but they were beyond that, he supposed.

“What for?” She asked, casually touching objects on the table next to the fireplace.

He sighed.

_I'm going to probably die – and I can't tell you that I love you._

_You are my sister and I am in love with you._

_I'm going away because I'm losing my bloody mind here._

“We need to win this war, Sansa.” He said eventually.

She shook her head, he could see red on her cheeks, and he remembered the way she had talked to him, that morning.

“I know.” She said, “I'll obey my king. I'm pretty used to doing that, you know?”

That was a low blow. And he didn't ask her if she thought him similar to Joffrey that time.

“I was wrong – about Littlefinger.” He said, changing the subject.

She let out a chuckle, she didn't look at him, she seemed transfixed looking at the fire when she said, “I haven't seen one of the monsters you talk about, but I believe you, Jon. I believe you because I have met monsters in my life,” she turned around and stretched her arms, and Jon glimpsed the scars on her chest.

“I was raped in this very room, on my wedding night. Theon, of all people, helped me clean the blood, after. I was at King's Landing and I have seen so many monsters and they were alive, just like you and me. So, I believe you – we need to win this war.”

He stepped closer to her; like he had meant to do since he had got into the room.

“I just -” Sansa sighed.

_What are we?_

_Do you feel the same way I do?_

“I wish you didn't have to go.” She whispered once he was close enough that only he could hear.

“You need to sleep --” She said taking his hand in hers. “I'll wake you up at dawn.”

_I love you. I don't believe in hell – but this is my damnation anyway._

_I love you – and I don't know what I am to you._

The bed smelled like her, like snow and _Sansa._

He closed his eyes and smiled when he felt Sansa's arms wrapping around his middle, the last thing he heard before falling asleep was, “Come back, Jon. Please.”


End file.
